Viscountess
by TheKarin
Summary: After the destruction of the chantry, Hawke promised Kirkwall she would pick up the shattered pieces by becoming the new Viscountess. A title that comes with a whole new list of responsibilities, paperwork, and one Ser Seneschal Bran following her every move. Big mistake, or greatest idea ever? Chapter 7: The Ward
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Characters property of Bioware.**  
**Only thing I own is my creepy little ideals.**

"Late again, Hawke..." the prim and proper Seneschal Bran stood with arms behind his back as Hawke entered the viscount office. The woman jolted like a frightened halla, hand gripping the door knob as if to flee. But that would've just made the man angrier. So instead, she released the door with one of her charming grins.

"Well, you know what they say, 'Better late than not at all', right?" She strolled over to the desk, forcing the smile in place as she brushed passed the frowning man. Unaffected by the ol' Hawke Charm, Bran sighed and lowered his head. Uh Oh. She knew that sigh. It was the same one her mother used when she was a child. A lecture was eminent.

Smile faltering, Hawke lowered herself to the hard wooden chair behind the desk, littered with papers and important, _ignored_, documents.

"As the new Viscountess of Kirkwall, you should know you will be expected to have...a certain level of _professionalism_ and _dedication_ to your new status." Bran's firm tone felt berating. Hawke had to fight not to wince. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but nowadays she wondered if she made a mistake in offering to fill the empty Viscount chair. She was never known for being very prudent, on time, motivated or dedicated, but both she and her good friend Aveline had agreed; Kirkwall needed a new leader. And after all that happened, who better to fill that role than the woman responsible for righting all of Kirkwall's wrongs. And sometimes adding to them...

"Ah... Forgive me, Bran. I must've overslept...jitters and all that..." Hawke tried offering another grin to ease his stiff posture. But a sharp glint flicked into those cold, unaffected eyes and Hawke immediately sobered.

"It has been an entire week since the people elected you as the new Viscountess, and they are getting restless." The Seneschal did nothing to hide his dislike for the woman. And even though she swore loyalty to the Viscount, it was clear he was not pleased to be serving under this Ferelden native. His blatant disapproval was more a motivation than a hindrance. Look down on me, eh? I'll show you, Bran... Hawke steeled her expression, eyes lowering to the obsidian spiked crown that lay on her desk. It wasn't long ago that she saw that blasted crown adorning the balding head of Viscount Dumarr. Though his views were horribly biased and outdated, his death had saddened Hawke more than she thought possible. Not just because she'd placed a misguided trust in the Arishok, but because the members of the Dumarr family were two people a part of the 'We Trusted Hawke' party. And yet she'd failed them both. Damnit. Dumarr had accepted losing his son, but he looked to Hawke to fix the problem before it had gotten worse. He had trusted her to fix the growing problems in their city, any way she sought fit. And what had she done? Betrayed his trust, tossed Kirkwall into turmoil, and gotten him killed. Even if no one else admitted it, it was all her fault that Dumarr was gone. Perhaps her becoming Viscountess was a repentance. A means to pick up the shattered pieces and rebuild Kirkwall to a higher level best suited for her home. T'ch, and here she was, slacking off already.

Bran seemed to notice Hawke's change, as his firm scowl eased at the woman's suddenly depressed expression. They sat in silence for a moment or two, both eying that lonely crown atop her desk. Reaching out, Hawke plucked the old metallic crown between two fingers and brought it closer. She heaved a sigh and rested a hand over the top, feeling its coolness, making her shiver.

"What am I supposed to do...?" She whispered soften, not knowing if she was talking to the Seneschal or to Dumarr himself. The silence that followed was dead. It was almost too much to bear. Hawke's hand clenched around the spiked metal, fingers trembling. The one time I ask for help and you give me nothing, you...bastard. She needed to vent. Needed to get angry and hurt something. But the warm touch above her trembling had had stilled her. Eyes lifting in surprise, she stared at the Seneschal's wide-palmed hand, now placed over her own at the crown. She stared at this connection for a moment, then rose her vibrant green eyes to meet Bran's the man stared down at her with such sympathy in his gaze that Hawke felt her own burn with unshed tears.

"One step at a time, Lady. We will achieve our goals together. For Kirkwall. And for Dumarr." The man's soft tone eased into Hawke's eased and hummed contentedly in her brain. If she were the suspicious type, she would've accused Bran of bespelling her. Even her hand tingled underneath his. She must have gasped at the sensation, because Bran's hand soon swiped itself back, and the normally cold man turned from her. The tingle of warmth vanished. But Hawke was still entranced. She'd almost forgotten. It wasn't just her suffering, not knowing what to do. She wasn't the only one at a loss. This man here had served the Viscount or Maker knows how long. Surely after all that time he had grown comfortable with Dumarr and the state of Kirkwall before Hawke had shown up. And looking at him now, Hawke felt as if she were looking at a misplaced child or jilted lover, too stubborn to accept how alone he really was. Even now he reused to face Hawke, back stiff and the tops of his ears dusted a flustered red.

_Wait...what?_

After a moment to shape her thoughts, Hawke looked at him again. The Seneschal stood facing the door. Broad shoulders rigid, muscles pulled tight with tension. The longer she looked at the Seneschal, the more Hawke realized how attractive he was. The man was her senior, but you couldn't guess his age by looking at him. His body still held the firm build of a young buck, full of life and play. How a man like that could support having a nice body and a loyal career indoors was beyond her. Hawke's roving gaze lifted higher. His hair wasn't the bloody red color like her own, or the vibrant ginger seen on Aveline. No, the Seneschal's was a ruddy orange-brown, and she wondered vaguely if it was as soft as it looked, cut close to his head, yet curling slightly about his ears. Ears that were still faintly tinted red. Hawke could now very blatantly interpret this guarded stance as embarrassment, if not downright fluster. It was almost...endearing. Had he felt the tingle in their hands as well? Or was he simply embarrassed by the fact that he'd shown a glimmer or humanity, downright vulnerability, to Hawke?

Still stunned by this, Hawke cleared her throat, making the Seneschal stiffen all the more. She watched, amused, as he hurried for the door, motions stiff and practiced.

"I shall be waiting in my office, Serah Hawke, should you want me. I mean, need me. My assistance, that is. Good day, Hawke." the flustered Seneschal stammered, jerking the door open and disappearing outside. She could hear him grumbling to himself as he fled. Something about the Maker and a colorful stream of curses aimed at himself, she guessed. The door clicked shut, cutting off the sound and leaving Hawke alone. Blinking a few times, a faint smile spread over her lips, bringing her gaze back down to the Viscount crown under her hand. The metal was warm now, and she picked it up to feel it's comfortable weight in her hand.

"It seems I won't be shoulder this burden all by my lonesome, will I, Dumarr?" Hawke smirked, letting the crown dangle on her fingertip. Not when she had the attractive Ser Seneschal Bran to help shoulder it. On a pair of nicely toned, broad, yummy-looking shoulders. _Maker, help her. Just what had Hawke signed herself up for now?_


	2. Chapter 2

Later that night, Hawke sought refuge in the Hanged Man, as per usual. It seemed that despite the drastic changes in power and the threat of bloodmages, people still found time to sit, drink and be merry.. Or, as merry as one could get passed out drunk in the corner. A cynical smirk crossed Hawke as she gazed toward the giant hanging man dangling over the entrance. Both a welcome and dreaded sight. With a deep breath, she mustered her courage before shoving the door open. No telling which group of drunken citizens waited inside. The men and women who insisted on the gorey details of Hawke's adventures? Or perhaps the slumming nobles that found it their sole right to tell Hawke what a horrible job she was doing? Still, the stench of alcohol, sweat and blood felt like a balm as Hawke entered. And after a moment of lingering worry, she was pleased to find no one shouting at her or calling her over. If only she could remain this blissfully invisible at all times.

"Hawke! Over here!" a familiar voice called, breaking her out of her wistful fantasy. _Invisible, yeah right._

"Evening, Varric." Hawke smirked and made her way over, intent on ignoring the sudden stared and hushed whispered as people realized who had entered. Thanks a hell of a lot. "How is my favourite dwarf?" She crooned, sinfully sweet. He must have felt the sting of sarcasm, since he had winced and gave an apologetic smile. Like she would've gone unnoticed anyways.

"Great, now that you're here. We wanted to have a chat with you." He gestured to the seat infront of him as the woman at his right called out for another round. She then turned smiling eyes onto Hawke, and they both grinned at each other.

Ever since she met the beautiful pirate captain, Hawke had found a quick attraction to her. Not just because of her perfect dusky complexion, sinful gaze and ability to hold more liquor than ten men combined, but because they shared more ideals and dreams than initially thought. She had a sharp wit, jokes so inappropriate that even Varric blushed, and knew her way around a dagger or two even better than Hawke did. There was never any doubt that the two of them would become such good friends. Even if she'd known Aveline longer and considered the guard-captain a friend as well, there was nothing quite like spending time with the rowdy pirate captain in the Hanged Man.

"'Ello, Hawke." she smirked, already easing a full cup across the table. Hawke took it gracefully, downing half of its contents without a thought. The ale burned down her throat like liquid fire, washing away the last of her tension and relaxing her muscles. She heaved another sigh.

"That...was exactly what I needed after the hellish day I've suffered." Hawke whined, letting the ambient chatter and laughter hum into her suddenly very comfortable body. Isabela laughed, an infectious purr that had Hawke grinning along with her.

"That's me. I'm a helper." She rose a hand to her chest, eyelashes batting provocatively. Hawke chuckled, swirling the contents of her cup.

"I'll say. You've 'helped' yourself to my blades more times than I can count." she quipped, not missing a beat. Isabela laughed again, naturally drawing gazes from nearby men by the way she tossed her head back. The woman leaned forward again, tapping her fingers against the full bottle in her grip.

"What can I say? I see what I like, and I take it..' her warm brown eyes narrowed to stare intensely into Hawke's green ones. Going along with it, the redhead leaned in to grasp the bottle Isabela held, hand just above hers, their contrasting skin tones going well against the black tint of the bottle. Hawke pulled the bottle a little closer, as if to snatch it, but Isabela had leaned even closer, not willing to relinquish it to her grip. As if they were the only ones there, Hawke sighed and met Isabela's sensual grin with her own.

"I wasn't complaining, love..." she purred, leaning in until they were mere inches away. Heat lingered between them, breaths mingling, tasting of booze. Isabela licked her lips, and—

"As much as I'd love to watch you two make out, I really did have something to talk about." Varric interrupted, causing an uproar of, mostly, male shouts of disapproval. It was only then that Hawke realized that the whole tavern had fallen silent with rapt attention on the two women. She was used to stealing attention by being playfully flirtatious with the pirate, but not on this scale. That must have been drunker than originally suspected.

Laughing amongst the patrons, Hawke tossed herself back and rose her legs up to rest on the table. As if anyone would tell the Viscountess to put her feet down. Isabela smiled like a cat with a mouthful of cream. An analogy that had Hawke snickering, bringing the pilfered bottle to her lips for a nice drink. As if nothing happened, the pirate summoned another, politely accepting a bottle from one of the half dozen eager gentlemen suddenly at her side. And though she gave them a grateful smile, no further attention was granted. Smug, they both turned their gazes onto Varric, as the surrounding noise started up again. Just as amused by their antics, he chuckled a shook his head.

"That was almost as bad as that night you two tried pulling a double-seduction on poor Corff." he murmured, subtly tilting his head to indicate the tidy blond standing behind the bar counter. Both Hawke and Isabela turned to look at him, and when he happened to glance their way, Isabela gave him a saucy little wink. The flustered barkeep fumbled the glass bottle in his hand, effectively spilling its contents all over the counter. Hawke snickered, watching as the red-eared man turned his back to them. The posture immediately reminded her of the Seneschal, and her smile quickly died.

Her thoughts had been so cluttered with the Seneschal all day that she hadn't even remembered doing any sort of work. Which wasn't unusual for her, but something whispered in the back of her mind that she'd forgotten something important. Wasn't that just beautiful? She mused, tipping her head back for another generous swig of ale.

"Maker's breath, Hawke. Slow down or you won't remember anything until tomorrow." Varric warned.

"Isn't that usually the point? I've had a piss-poor day Varric, so excuse your silly outlandish stories for one night and let a girl—"

"I know where Anders is." he interrupted in a hushed tone. The booze collected on her tongue suddenly went tasteless. Even Isabela stopped to stare at the dwarf. Somehow managing not to choke on her own drink. Hawke forced herself to swallow, the lump of ale sliding down her throat with a painful squeeze. She stared at Varric in disbelief. Surely he was joking. As usual, right?

But something in his severe gaze wasn't right. Gone was the usual twinkle, a charm that rivaled hers, silver tongued enough to tell you sweet lies with such a relish you no longer saw the barrier between reality and fantasy. No, this time the storytelling dwarf was dead serious. Anders?

"You're shitting us, right dwarf?" Isabela attempted to laugh, though even that sounded strained. Varric shook his head, making the lump in Hawke's stomach grow more solid.

"If it were anything else, Rivani, I would be." After a brief glance upward, Varric leaned in, mouth a grim line. "I've had an ear out for Blondie's whereabouts. For a long time it really looked as if he'd disappeared completely. Until recently..." The happy-drunk Hawke had begun to feel now fell sour. It really was Anders, wasn't it? The main cause for Kirkwall's problems. And by association of the Viscountess, Hawke's problems as well. After destroying the chantry, with the Grand Cleric still inside, Kirkwall had erupted into chaos. It had taken weeks to calm things down, and even now the chantry was still in repair. It had been before Hawke was officially recognized as Viscountess, so she'd assumed Seneschal Bran had handled the bulk of the mess. When asked why he hadn't filled the position himself, Bran insisted being Seneschal was hassle enough.

Now that things were reasonably calm, search had begun for the mage responsible. But the renegade mage was slippery, she knew all too well. Having been running from templars and grey wardens all his life, Hawke knew Anders didn't need her help keeping safe. And she had truly wanted him safe. Despite all that happened, Anders was still a friend. Beneath all the lies, betrayal and lack of trust, she still—

"Hawke? You okay, hun?" Isabela asked breaking through her deep thought. Blinking, Hawke focused on the pirate captain's curious frown. Reality slid back into place, and Hawke realized she had gripped the bottle in her hand so tightly her knuckles went white. Swallowing, she let her grip loosen, eyes fixed on the table.

"Where is he?" she croaked, voice hoarse from the tightness in her throat. Isabela and Varric exchanged looks.

"Hawke... I think you should-"

"_Where. Is. He_." Hawke's shift in tone was almost a growl, eyes never leaving the table. Someone had drawn something inappropriately phallic on the tables surface, but it failed to raise her spirits. If Anders could be found, she was the only one who could do it. She would make damn sure she got to him first. She deserved that much.

"Well, I can't say for sure," Varric hesitated, worry heavy in his tone, "But rumor has it the 'Great Healer' who broke the chains binding mages everywhere is still nearby. In the only place common folk and templars are too afraid to search..." Varric trailed off, letting Hawke piece it together. There was only one place she knew that was so safe, yet so dangerous at the same time.

"The Deep Roads?" She whispered, the beginnings of a headache burning behind her eyes. At Varric's grim nod, Hawke's breath rushed out.

"But don't the grey warden's travel the Deep Roads?" disbelief plagued Hawke. Anders had hated the Deep Roads. It made little sense that he would hide there. Why hadn't he traveled out of the Free Marches? What was he waiting for?

"I wondered that myself. But you know how he is. A few grey wardens aren't enough to scare him away."

Varric was right. If Anders had fled to the Deep Roads, a place he knew better than the back of his hand, he could hide comfortably without fear of prosecution. For a while, anyways But it still didn't answer the question of why he was there. Why had he hid, rather than do what he did best, and run far, far away?

The brief image of the mage smashed into the front of Hawke's brain. The tall blond, face dusted with an attractive stubble, a saucy little smirk as he lured Hawke by the chin into a small alcove out of sight to their companions, eagerness shining in his blue eyes, and kissing her senseless in a rare and treasured moment of frisky playfulness. The memory hit her like a rampaging ogre, assaulting her senses; the feel of his lips on hers, the scratchy stubble, his strangely alluring masculine scent, of wild trees and hot nights. The breathless way he whispered her name, just before his tongue dominated her inviting mouth, tasting of thunderstorms. His irresistible blue eyes, pupils widened with desire so that only a thin band of blue remained.

"Hawke?"

Those moments were so rare. One moment, he'd be skulking behind the group, mumbling about templars, the next he's commenting on how sexy Hawke looked covered in blood, a devilish light dancing in his eyes. He had been excitingly confusing. A mystery, begging to be unraveled. Especially when he did that thing with his magic that—

"Hawke!" someone called louder.

Snapping out of her haze, Hawke sat up straighter, blinking. Varric looked worried, but Isabela looked...unhappy. Very unhappy.

"You okay? You look a little strange..." Varric, ever the watchful father-type, frowned and reached to take Hawke's drink away.

"Just a little?" Isabela sneered as Hawke danced the bottle out of Varric's reach. Disapproval was so heavy in her voice, it was almost as if she knew what Hawke had been thinking. With where her thoughts had been going, she wasn't surprised.

"I'm fine, Varric." She did her best to ignore the memory as it threatened to overtake her again. _Destroyed the chantry, killed the Grand Cleric, started a war between mages and templars, broke your heart;_ her silent mantra, fingers gripping the bottle tightly. "I'm going to find him."

"What?!" The two shouted as one; Varric surprised, if not downright relieved, Isabela...angrier. What as her problem?

"Now?" Varric questioned, oblivious to the pirate's growing anger. Or perhaps ignoring it on purpose. Hawke shook her head, no intention of moving for a good long while.

"Of course not." Hawke huffed, taking another swig to ease her frazzled nerves. The two just stared at her.

"You sure you're okay?" Varric was still visibly worried, but Hawke waved him off, plastering her usual smile to ease his troubles.

"Of course! We're just going to have a nice _chat_." Hawke grunted, taping fingers against the bottle. Varric leaned back, apparently satisfied. Isabela, however, wanted nothing to do with it. Pushing from the table, she stood and stormed out, going relatively unnoticed as she exited the Hanged Man. They watched her go, Hawke's brow furrowed.

"What bit _her_ ass?" half drunk, she hissed in the general direction of where Isabela had stormed off, then took another drink.

"For once, I have no idea." Varric murmured, his own thoughts closed off. The tension seemed to sift to nothing after that, giving Hawke time to work up to that memory-less state of inebriation they mentioned earlier. Every sip felt less and less relaxing than the last. Too much was on her mind. This whole day was just one big nug-shit. Nothing could quite make things worse.

"Serah Hawke!" a booming voice lanced through Hawke's headache, making her eyes pop open.

Nothing, expect perhaps Seneschal Bran coming by for a visit.

"Maker, Hawke. What did you do to the good Seneschal to make him so damn pissed? Kill his cat?" Varric whispered around his glass, the playful twinkle back in his eyes. Hawke could only groan as the Seneschal made his way over, steps loud and damning. She didn't dare look at him, even as he now stood at her side.

"And how, by Andraste's tits, did you find me here?" The woman growled, a whole lot more disrespectfully than intended. Even Varric choked on his drink in surprise. Bran, however, took it all in stride, leaning over to hiss in her head.

"I followed the stench of chaos and failure. Have you no concern for Kirkwall? As Seneschal to this sorry excuse for a Viscountess, I cannot permit such an important figurehead to be seen slumming with riffraff while Kirkwall has demands that must be met!" He sounded furious, one hand firmly planted on her shoulder, lacking all the gentleness of their earlier conversation. Hawke winced and finally looked up at him, all of Thedas' disappointment resting in the Seneschal's fiery gaze. It was all she could do not to shrink away from it. When she had flinched, Bran's hand tightened, lips pursed and jaw tight. Thankfully, Varric had recovered, interrupting with a good-natured smile.

"Come now, Seneschal. Isn't the Viscountess allowed a night off once in a while?" he offered, practically flinching when the man's faze cut through him.

"There is a difference between a night off and _every night_ off, Ser dwarf. And Serah Hawke has been neglecting far too many of Kirkwall's concerns too take such liberties." Bran growled, piercing gaze back onto Hawke, at the moment trying not to list too far to the side, nearly toppling over. Varric cleared his throat.

"Ah, as you can see, our dear Viscountess is a bit too...occupied, to fully understand her mistakes at the moment. Perhaps you should reprimand her when she's awake and sober? Might I suggest early morning, when her headache is in it's early stages?" Varric turned on the charm, grinning up at the Seneschal. He released Hawke's shoulder, after subconsciously catching her from the topple and leaning her more fully onto the back of her chair. He thought for a moment, staring down at her unfocused eyes, fixed on the ceiling with a hazy concentration.

"Perhaps...you are correct, dwarf." He finally settled on a thought, straightening and adjusting his cuffs. "I will speak to Serah Hawke on the morrow." shoulders relaxing, he prepared to leave.

"While you're here, why not stay for a drink? Help you relax a little? Hawke is a funny drunk." Varric laughing, eying the woman, who had begun to complain incoherently to the ceiling. The Seneschal watched her for a moment, an unshared thought crossing his face. A moment passed before he set to leaving once more.

"A generous offer, but I will have to decline. A man of my standards has little need for such...company." The proper man dusted at himself and wandered back to the entrance. Varric watched him go, curiously looking back Hawke. If he wasn't mistaken, he would've sworn something happened between them.

"Varric! The ceiling is falling again!" Hawke gasped, horrified. The dwarf only chuckled, shaking his head. No use asking about it now.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun still had yet to rise as Hawke made her way home from the Hanged Man. Stumbling up the stairs, the drunk redhead cursed and bend to rub her stubbed toes. It took a moment to seriously focus, but she could've sworn someone had stolen her boots. She reached the top and began wobbling down Hightown's empty square. The lightheadedness had passed hours ago, amongst singing songs with Varric and other patrons. She got felt up, if she remembered correctly, so a brawl had sprung out. Some people got stabbed, but they'd be okay, she hoped. Now all Hawke was left with was an empty pocket; to pay for healing bills and a few rounds of drinks on her, a busted lip, a few bruised ribs, the buttons snapped on her once blood-free blouse, and no shoes. Lovely night, to say the least. As long as she made it home with her trousers and her daggers, she was happy. At least until she heard a familiar rustle from the darkness around her. And things had been going so well, too.

"I c'n hear you, y'blasted nug-humpers..." Hawke grumbled to the darkness of the seemingly empty street corner. Nothing. "T'ch. I can smell you too. Didn't your bitchwhore mums tell you to wash your arse every morning?" irritation got the better of her. One arm was sore, so she used her free one to tug one of her daggers loose, the glimmering jagged edge immaculate despite her overall rumpled state. At her silent threat, the rustle came back, along with the stench of sulfur. Snarling, Hawke whirled around to catch a man by the throat just as he appeared in a burst of smoke. Her blade sliced through him with a grotesque noise, prompting five more to emerge from similar bursts around her. Despite her mental state, Hawke handled them with ease. Jagged blade blocking one, two strike attempts, pivoting to kick the crotch of one creeping up behind her. She rammed her shoulder into one man, bringing her blade down with a shout at the at the second, when his swing missed.

Not missing a beat, she changed the angle on her grip and thrust the blade behind her, catching another raider in the gut. He went down, as the man she shoved recovered and lunged. Their blades met and held, the jagged edges on her own matching it easy to yank his out of his grip. That hadn't seemed to stop him, and he caught Hawke by surprise by gripping her wrist, keeping her from striking.

Grunting, off balance, Hawke fought to get her arm free, only to cry out in pain as a solid mass of energy hit her side. Pushed into the man holding her, they both went down. Hawke bit through the pain of an unexpected mage attack and straddled the man now under her. Arm free, she could now force it down against his throat, silencing his pained curses. Rather than give the lone mage another cheap shot, Hawke brought her sore arm down to retrieve a small knife from her ankle. Barely looking, she flung it backward, scoring. Impaled in the dead center of his forehead, the mage fell, leaving the street relatively silent again. The man she'd scored in the crotch was the one raider still able to draw breath, but had yet to recover from her cheap shot. She must've kneed him harder than she thought.

But as Hawke turned to silence the poor sod's pained grunts, she paused at what she saw. At some point during the brief battle, someone had joined her. Crouching on the man's neck, Isabela's quick hands rifled through his pockets and relieved him of anything remotely valuable. Hawke could only stare, bemused, as she examined his unused blade with an uncharacteristically hard scowl. Even her posture was off; the usually relaxed and battle-happy woman kneeling stiffly, tossing the useless weapon aside and raising her to her feet. Not before using her knee to snap the man's neck and silence him for good. Sliding the pilfered silvers into her own pouch, Isabela let her gaze lift to Hawke, still sitting on the bloodied ground. When they only stared at each other, Hawke spoke up, clearing her throat.

"Ah, hey Isabela. Nice Job." She smiled weakly, deciding not to comment on her odd behavior. Even the way she killed him seemed wrong. Clean, quick. So unlike the pirate. When Isabela still hadn't moved, Hawke decided something was wrong. Pushing to her feet, she approached the tense captain, stopping when Isabela visibly flinched back.

"What's wrong?" Hawke whispered, suddenly afraid. Isabela was acting too strange. A mixture of anger and, if she wasn't mistaken, fear. As she reached out, Isabela's quick hand shot out and snagged her wrist. Holding on tight, fingers trembling. What the hell?

"Don't go." The noticeably shaken pirate whispered, jaw tight.

"Isabela...?"

"Promise me, Hawke!" her grip tightened, expression hardening, "Don't do looking for him!"

As realization dawned, Hawke blinked rapidly.

"You don't want me...to find Anders?" She questioned, voice low. It was easy to see Isabela's fury now. Rage barely tethered y the grip on Hawke's wrist. "Why not?" Isabela had never loved the mage, but she hadn't seemed to hate him either. What was this sudden change?

"He's dangerous, Hawke. And before you call foul, I know we're all just a bit dangerous. But hun...he's a whole knew level. He'll get you killed. Hell, he almost did! In more ways than one." She shook her head, obviously disgusted. When Hawke winced, she finally let go. Because it was clear Isabela needed to get it off her chest, Hawke didn't interrupt.

"What he did wasn't just bad, it was horrible. Even I wouldn't kill an innocent, and he killed dozens. Nothing justifies what he did." her anger boiled, teeth gritting in a snarl, "And when he left, you... You broke down. I saw it, Varric saw it, Shit even Aveline saw it."

"I didn't!"

"You became a sniveling, sobbing, disgustingly depressed, sorry excuse for a woman. Ignore it all you want, but he broke your heart. And I'll never forgive him for that." She pushed all of her rage out on that last growled comment, so full of malice that Hawke shuddered.

Finished, the tension melted from her stance, expression sulky. Silence surrounded them, standing in front of Hawke's estate, the nearby torch casting shadows over their faces. It took a while before Hawke's voice returned.

"Isabela..." she hesitated when the pirate's sharp gaze cut into her. The sweet woman. She was worried. "I'm a big girl, I can handle myself." Hawke smiled weakly, trying to lighten the mood. Isabela visibly relaxed, but her frowned remained in place.

"Oh right, like how you handled yourself earlier? A mere thought of him and you're already creaming yourself. Maker's balls, you're _still_ stuck on him, after all he's done. Don't do this, Hawke. He'll use you, again. He'll hurt you, _again_. And we'll have to come pick up the pieces of your poor, shattered, girly little feelings, again." She sneered, obtaining a pout from Hawke. It hadn't been _that_ bad, had it?

"You don't get it. I have to, 'Bela. Not because of how I fee—_felt_. This isn't some quest for love. I have to confront him. I have to know why...' She felt her anger spike, pausing to give it a chance to sober. Isabela looked skeptical.

"Really?" she asked. Hawke sighed.

"Yes. Shit, I was planning on giving him a swift kick in the ass. I'm mad too, you know..." She chuckled bitterly. And the faintest smile crossed Isabela's lips. Finally, things seemed to have calmed, as the pirate captain sighed and looped an arm around Hawke's shoulders, leading her off towards the estate's door.

"Just a kick, huh?" She chuckled, "If you really want to leave an impression, I can give you some tips. C'mon, we could both use a few more drinks." Hawke smirked, arm wrapping around her companions curvy waist.

"Right, you left way too quickly. Seneschal came,completely ruined a good drunken stupor. You should've seen how angry he was." she sighed, pushing her door open. Isabela chuckled again, expression sly.

"See him? I'm the one who told him where you were!" She cackled, mingling with Hawke's groan.

"_Damnit Isabela._.." She trailed off as they disappeared inside Hawke's estate.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Hawke woke snug in her bed. Though she was still sore, bruised and suffering a hangover, she felt strangely content. Perhaps it was all thanks to her sleeping companion.

Still fast asleep beside her, Isabela shifted and rolled onto her side. The sight brought a smile to Hawke's face. The two had spent the better of the night and early morning with plenty of Fenris' tevinter wine, gossip and dirty stories. And although she barely remembered it, Hawke had a feeling it was the best night she had since Kirkwall had been thrown to chaos. She wasn't sure why or how Isabela ended up in her bed, but she was grateful. A knock on the door had Hawke groaning and struggling to get up.

"Yes?" She called, noticing that her robe hung open. Managing to pull it closed just in time as the door to her room opened. Bodahn peeked his head inside, smiling warmly.

"Good morning, Messere! I apologize for being a bother," The dwarf gave a short bow of his head. But Hawke only smiled and waved him off.

"Not a problem at all, Bodahn. Something wrong? Did the Dog chew my letters again?" Hawke stretched, humming. Feeling too good to let a little something like that get her down. Bodahn laughed, a pleasing sound.

"No, Messere. The mabari is behaving rather well this morning. I have reason to believe it is on account of our guest." The dwarf seemed strangely proud of this, Hawke frowned curiously, peeking over her shoulder at the woman in her bed, rolling slightly as her slumber started to fade.

"Because of Isabela? I highly doubt that..." She smirked. By Bodahn's surprised blink, Hawke guessed he hadn't known she was still there. The thought turned smug when the good-natured dwarf noticeably flustered and ducked his head.

"Ah, no messere. I had not known Mistress Isabela had stayed the night..."

"'Mistress', is it?" Isabela yawned and stretched, though she refused to raise from the rumpled sheets, "I rather like the sound of that. Sounds a lot better than 'Tainted Pirate Whore', that's for sure." Her easy laughter filled the room, and while Hawke joined her with a chuckle, Bodahn was still frazzled. Poor dwarf, might as well stop teasing him.

"You said we had a guest? If it isn't Isabela, then who..." Now Bodahn's smile returned, hands cupped together in front of him.

"Why, yes! Messere Bran has arrived with a request to speak with you. He is waiting in the front hall for the time being." Hawke felt her expression fall, a new stiffness reaching her tired muscles.

"Bran?" she gasped, Bodahn's eyebrows raising curiously. By the void, what was _he_ doing here?

"Indeed. He seemed most adamant in speaking with you this morning, Messere. Should I tell him to come back when you are...less occupied?" Bodahn shifted uncomfortably, and Hawke had to fight not to laugh. He was reading way too into this. Sure, she and Isabela had their 'fun' on occasion, but both had silently agreed friendship was all they needed from each other. Shaking her head, Hawke crossed the room just as Bodahn opened the door wider for her.

The muffled noise of barking caught her attention as she exited into the main room, but it sounded different. A pause, bark, followed by another pause. As if he were having a conversation with someone. _The Seneschal?_ She wondered. As she descended the stairs, Sandal rose his head curiously. The younger dwarf immediately greeting Hawke and his father with a bright smile. He had something in his hands, it glowed a docile blue.

"Morning, Sandal. Doing some enchanting today?" Hawke smiled, grateful for the boys talent in enchanting. Sandal's smile stretched wider.

"Enchantment!" he shouted conversationally, Hawke chuckled.

"Let me have a look when you're done, okay? I always love seeing your creations." She waved a hand as she neared, the happy dwarf nodding before focusing on the runes in his hands. She passed him with a fond smile as his father stood nearby to murmur words of praise and encouragement. The jealous pang she felt toward their familiar closeness was quickly shoved away. After the loss of her mother, things never quite felt the same around the estate. But she could still find a bittersweet smile whenever she lost herself in a memory of her.

The soft, sad smile was still in place as she followed the barking toward the entrance hall, stopping short when she recognized the low hum of Seneschal Bran's voice. The smooth timbre of it caught her by surprise, the tone gentler than when directed at her. So similar to how he had spoke to her yesterday morning, it was all she could do to keep from sighing at the enchanting cadence of his conversation with her dog. Judging by the way her silly mutt kept barking, he enjoyed it too. How bizarre it was to listen to the stuffy prig of a man murmur to a dog in such a gentle way. For a while, Hawke was content to stand near the doorway and listen. But when the soft rumble of the Seneschal's voice cut off, followed by her dog's curious grumble, she had a lingering suspicion that they had sensed her nearby. Cover blown, she winced when the mutt came trotting out to bark happily at her, behind wagging.

"Serah Hawke, how happy of you to join us..." The hard professionalism in Bran's voice had returned, and this time she really did sigh.

"Thanks a lot, Dog." Sarcasm was heavy in her voice, but he only barked louder. Simply pleased to see his mistress. Ignorance is bliss, isn't it? Patting his head, she braced herself and stepped into the hall where Bran waited expectantly. The wall was just as big as a bedroom and bore a few benches for seating. Benches that were...still covered in the Dog's scratches. Talk about great first impressions. Hawke found the Seneschal on one of the benches, an empty cup at his side. When his stern gaze took in her rumpled state, one eyebrow raised, Hawke felt her face warm.

"Ah, Good morning, Bran." She forced a welcoming smile, arms crossed to shield herself from his scrutiny. Lips twitching, he rose to fold his arms in his usual stance.

"Morning? The sun is high, and morning is long since passed. Do you always make a habit of sleeping the day away?" The Seneschal seemed amused, most likely because of her vulnerable state. Or because he knew how drunk she'd gotten last night, only now suffering it's consequences.

"I think I'm entitled to a little rest after the night I had." Hawke sighed, prepared for another lecture. But Bran only shifted on his feet, eyes over her shoulder. And, if she wasn't mistaken, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"I'll bet," he murmured, both eyebrows raised now. Hawke paled when she realized why he was so smug.

"_Hello, Seneschal_. Whipping Hawke into shape today?" Isabela's voice trickled in from the main room, filling the hall with her sultry presence as she joined them. When Bran's amused gaze fell to her, then Hawke, she felt her headache returning full force.

"That is my intention, Serah. If, that is, the Viscountess can remain coherent enough to take proper direction." Despite the circumstances, he regarded the pirate captain with an easy acceptance, a man able to look upon such blatant sexuality without getting flustered or lustful as most men did who met Isabela. Normally Isabela would've seen that as a challenge, but when she stood beside Hawke and slung an arm over her shoulder, her posture lacked the sensual dominance it usually did. Perhaps she knew how much of a lost cause trying to seduce Bran would be. The man was as cold as an ice-storm. Isabela's smile was almost friendly as she peered toward the Seneschal.

"Wouldn't go counting your sovereigns yet. Our girl here isn't fit for desk work. More of a 'bust em up' kinda gal." Isabela chuckled, obtaining an agreeing head bob and smile from Bran. This was even more bizarre than hearing him talk to her dog.

"Be that as it may, we all have to make changes when the need arises. For the future of Kirkwall, and all of Thedas, Serah Hawke will just have to learn to bend." Though they were speaking about her, neither looked her way. She was starting to feel uncomfortably invisible. The soothing sound of Isabela's full-throated laughter rolled over Hawke, relaxing her as the woman let go and made an easy stroll for the door.

"I'm sure with the right incentive, Hawke will be more than willing to _bend_, for Kirkwall." The pirate, brazen as she pleased, swung the door open in a flourish. "Thanks again for the wine, Hawke." She called over her shoulder, hips swaying as she left in the general direction of Lowtown. Face undoubtedly red, Hawke shook her head and lowered herself to the bench beside them, resting her forehead into a hand. _Bend for Kirkwall, what in the void is that supposed to mean?_ Her quick temper irked when Bran chuckled, arms folded behind his back. When she glanced up at him, the tiny smug grin was still in place.

"You have an interesting friend there, Hawke." Bran gestured his head, eyes leaving her when her dog came wandering back in.

"Don't you mean lover? Since that's what she'll have everyone believe. Why not my own Seneschal as well?" Bitter, grumpy, she rose a hand for her dog, letting it fall when he completely ignored her and sat down expectantly in front Bran. Blighted mutt. Granted, he was a friendly beast, but not this blatantly obedient with a complete stranger. She could only watch as Bran bent to send a firm rub over the delighted mabari's head.

"Any one with sense enough to notice, can see that the two of you are of kindred souls. Friends, with unconditional care for one another's well being." he murmured, content to stroke the dog's head and neck.

"Yeah, well," Hawke huffed, "You know what they say, Birds of a feather fu—" she stopped just before one of Isabela's favourite inappropriate sayings could slip from her mouth. Bran's gaze was on hers again.

"_Flock_, together?" he said in a low voice. Hawke warmed again, darting her eyes away when he kept staring. He must have heard Isabela's dirtier version as well. Wasn't that just swell? Uncomfortable, Hawke closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing at her temples.

"Ah, right." She fell silent, taking in the faint scent of tea and the sound of the Dog's gruff breathing and low happy growls. After a while she opened her eyes, fixing them on Bran.

"Didn't peg you for a dog lover." She teased, a jealous scowl at her dog, now rolling onto his back for more petting. Bran only smiled, dropping to one knee to stroke the blissful mutt across his belly.

"I am no different than you, Hawke. My standing as Seneschal does not make me less of a human."

"You have a mabari too?" Hawke stared in disbelief. She could've sworn Bran's eyes went sad for a brief moment as he shook his head.

"Once, but no longer." His hand stilled, pleasure leaving his expression. "I haven't the spare time to care for pets anymore." As if he had accepted this saddening fact, he only watched as her dog rose and contentedly toddled away to lay beside the fire in the next room.

"Oh," Hawke stared in wonder, "I never knew that." Everything seemed to go still when Bran's intense gaze rose, capturing hers. It was then that she realized how close they were, almost able to feel his heat as he knelt there in front of her.

"There are a great many things you do not know, Serah." He spoke softly, words flowing straight through her like water. That was it, the perfect analogy for the Seneschal's deep, melodic voice. It was like water. Heavy yet free flowing through her head and sapping the ache from her temples. Her shoulders had relaxed, and seeing it, Bran continued.

"I have had to give up a great many things for Kirkwall. And I have learned to accept it, as we all do. It is my sincerest hope, Hawke, that you join us, in our efforts to keep Kirkwall safe and whole." His gaze held her still, while that voice sent her head on a dizzy spin. A sigh left her, pulled by his intense stare.

"I didn't ask for this..." her voice was too soft, as if nothing in her desired to rise higher than the air of dominance he unconsciously gave off. No man had ever had this much power over her. She was...out of her element.

"We never do." Bran murmured cryptically, reminding her of her brief meeting with the witch of the wilds. While the words were the same, the feeling they left in her was different. The longer he stared at her, into her, the smaller she felt. Powerless, helpless, lost in his heady gaze. A faint widening of his pupils when another breathy sigh left her parted lips. Her breath caught when for a mere second, his eyes fell to her mouth. Lingering for a maddening second before—

_Crash, boom!_

Like snuffing out a candle, the sensation broke, Hawke's headache coming back even stronger now that it lacked the cushion of Bran's voice. His eyes had darted in the direction of the noise, and he stood, curiously detached and lost in thought. Used to it, Hawke did nothing, only listening as Bodahn apologized from a room away.

"It's okay, Bodahn, I'll get another tomorrow." She called, making a mental note to buy a new table.. She might've gotten angry if it weren't for Sandal's sweet-hearted, distraught voice coming after his father's. Because she knew he was truly sorry, she wouldn't hold it against him. Besides, her head hurt, and the vulnerability Bran pulled from her was still fresh. When Bran continued to stare into the main room instead of at her, that vulnerability transformed itself into depression. She hung her head, taking a deep breath to wash away the raw sensation. Letting her thoughts collect.

"Why are you here, anyway?" She wondered aloud, keeping her head down and eyes closed in case she was tempted to look at him again. She felt, rather than seen, as Bran shifted from one foot to the other, clearing his throat.

"It was my intention to see how you were. After the night you had, it would be careless of me not to see that you are well," voice firm again, rebuilding that wall between them until Hawke felt nothing.

"How sweet," she sneered, giving in to her urge to rub her pounding temples once more. Bran took her jab with an easy grace, posture stiff and professional.

"And," he said louder to get her attention, "When a rumor surrounding the rogue Grey Warden mage fell to the Viscountess' doorstep, I found it prudent to ask if Serah Hawke knew anything regarding the matter." Hawke's eyes darted to his, found that he was already looking at her expectantly, then dashed away guiltily. But the damage was done. Bran took a step closer, and Hawke barely managed not to shirk back.

"So you _do_ know of this rumor. Much as I expected. Now the real question is, what will you do about this?" His question hung in the air, depressing Hawke even more. What she _wanted_ to do was cry, scream, stab something and eat a whole chocolate cake, not necessarily in that order. Not that he needed to know that. Feeling childish, she refused his answer. Not even looking his way when he shifted hands to his hips like a disapproving father.

"Hawke," he said firmly. She thankfully didn't flinch at the stern tone, "If you have information vital to this rumor..." he trailed off with a pointed stare. But Hawke only scowled, turning her head in the opposite direction.

"Nope!" She huffed stubbornly. No way would she tell him, or anyone. The less people involved the better. It wasn't as if she was protecting him. But if they knew where Anders was hiding, they might contract someone to find him. And she wanted to get to him first. Definitely.

"Really Hawke, as Viscountess, you should—"

"I'm handling it, alright?" She snapped, eyes down. For a while the Seneschal only stared at her. She assumed he'd start up again, but when he only sighed, her shoulders relaxed.

"Then I shall hold you to your word." Bran backed up, arms tucked behind his back. Hawke glanced up at him, maroon-tinted bangs shielding her eyes. His expression was sincere, so she pushed herself up to make her way to the door.

"Alright, well, I'll be by Viscount's Way later. After I..." She warmed, folding her arms across her rumpled night clothes. "I'll just be by later, okay?" She opened the door, Bran brushing past her to stand in the opening, turning to face her with that little smug grin on his mouth. Hawke shifted uncomfortably.

"Do take your time, Hawke. For public figures such as yourself, appearance can sometimes be everything." Bran nodded, standing comfortably in her doorway as if he'd been there dozens of times. Hawke pursed her lips, headache easing for some unknown reason.

"If I were the type, I would assume you just called me ugly, Seneschal," she teased, good mood returning. Bran's eyes glinted in amusement, but she caught something else as he stared intently down at her.

"Perish the thought, Madame Viscountess." he all but whispered, sending a shiver down her spine. Before she could recover, the Seneschal gave his bow and left. Steps leisurely and posture straight. As he walked away, he seemed to pull that feeling through her, a whisper of sensation before it was gone. Breath rushing out, Hawke closed the door and leaned against it. Much to her displeasure, she was grinning, thoughts cluttered with her Seneschal once again. It was clear the man had a sense of humor, or at the very least a side to his personality that he kept hidden to the public. A delightful mystery, she mused, feeling the beginnings of a challenge in her midst. And everyone knew how Hawke loved a good challenge. But when her thoughts began to remind her of Anders, her expression soured. As the sharp memory of his saucy little half smile sneaked into her mind, she hissed and kicked from the door. Tonight. She'd leave for the Deep Roads tonight. And finally get some answers. Even if she had to beat it out of him. _What could possibly go wrong? _


	5. Chapter 5

The day seemed to have flown by in a blink. Perhaps it was because she'd been in deep thought about tonight. She had sat at the Viscount's desk for most of the day. Signing papers presented to her and nodding non-commitably to nobles coming to complain about something or other. She hadn't even noticed when Bran had peeked in curiously, keeping close eye on her. The crown remained on her desk; she refused to put it on until she felt she was doing good for Kirkwall. Looking at it now, Hawke sighed heavily.

Determined not to look at it again, she stood, turning to face the window. The sun was going down, casting the entire sky in a rosy red hue. She might have called it pretty, but today it just looked like everything was on fire. Was this a smart choice she was making? Would she do what was right for Kirkwall? Or let her weak heart sway her once more? Did her loyalties lie with the home she wanted to protect, or the love she still hadn't gotten over?

"Hawke?" a low hum brought her attention back around. Bran stood in the doorway, as calm and collected as ever. "It is late, and most have retired for the night. Are you..."

"I'm fine," she cut him off, bitter. Bran quirked a brow.

"I was going to ask if you too were to head home, but that is as good an answer as any." His gaze burrowed into her, but she looked away in time. She wasn't falling for that again._ Not yet_, a voice whispered in the back of her head, but she ignored it.

"Right, well... that too." She absently fussed with her chair, pushing it in neatly before walking around the desk and to the door. Though he clearly wanted to know what was going on in her head, Bran politely stepped aside when she neared. Careful to make sure their bodies didn't brush, Hawke moved passed him and bee-lined for the next door. As she reached out to take the handle, a large hand closed around it first. Hawke jolted as Bran opened the door for her, lips twitching at her skittish behavior.

"Will you quit hovering? I know how to open a door, you know..." she snarled, though it was more of a non-threatening growl to Bran. He smiled more fully now, following as the irritated Hawke stomped from the office into the Keep's main room, empty and quiet for once. Sundays were okay, sometimes.

"My apologies, Madame Viscountess, but my upbringing would find it a crime to let a lady open a door for herself when gentlemen are present." He smiled from behind her as they descended the steps together. Bran's feet were silent, but his presence behind her was loud. An odd sensation coming from such a mild mannered man.

"Oh? And how do you suppose us poor ladies get doors open when you aren't here?" Hawke asked over her shoulder, clearing the stairs and making for the door. Bran made a point of pausing curiously before before answering.

"Magic?" he asked, a hint of playfulness in his voice. She couldn't helped but snicker at that shaking her head.

"Why, my dear Seneschal, did you make a funny?" Hawke teased, and a barely heard chuckle came from behind her.

"I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea what you mean, Madame Viscountess," he quipped, making her snicker again. It was odd, enjoying Bran's company like this. His playful side never ceased to amaze her. It was strangely refreshing, especially since years ago he was downright snippy toward her. The fact that he had a sense of humor, just tilted the attraction meter in his favour. Not...that she wanted to be attracted to him. But what the hell, she was human.

"Uh huh," she drawled, as they neared the door. With a growing grin, she darted forward in attempts to open the door for herself. But despite being a ways behind her, Bran was quicker. Instead of grabbing the door's handle, her hand closed over Bran's.

Warmth speared through her, leaving a line of tingles up the length of her arm. Accompanying it was a familiar drawing sensation she felt last time, as if her soul wished to exit her flesh and join with his. Hawke gasped, a breathy sound, and Bran's hand twitched. Something in her trembled, and Hawke could have sworn the nearby torches had brightened for a second, dimming when Hawke snatched her hand away and cut off the contact of skin against skin with Bran. The moment contact was broken, vertigo hit her so swiftly she would've tipped over if she hadn't steadied herself on a nearby statue. Eyes wide, she looked to Bran, who looked just as shaken as she did. Only, in Bran, it quickly shifted into anger, if not fury. At what, she wasn't sure, but it prompted the man to stiffly open the door and rush out ahead of her without so much as a goodbye. All she could do was watch, the dizziness in her brain slowly fading. Again with that. Such raw attraction. Maybe she should stop touching the Seneschal all together. Hawke scowled at her palm, still faintly tingling. Her thoughts momentarily flicked to the memory of Bran's intense gaze, pupils wide, to his half smirk when he was trying not to smile. Her breath left her on a rushed sigh, pushing forward to leave the Keep and shut the door behind her. Not touch the Seneschal? Hawke was starting to think that was more difficult a task than being Viscount.

* * *

The evening air was pleasantly cool, carrying the scent of sand and trees. The Wounded Coast was always a welcome place for her. The wilderness and open air reminding her of the Wilds in Ferelden. It was peaceful, even with the still constant threat of thieves, thugs, Tal-Vashoth and rogue mages. And though Hawke traveled alone, she was reasonably safe. She'd left immediately after the incident with Bran, not bothering to inform anyone of her whereabouts. It wasn't uncommon for Hawke to travel alone and she was not at helpless. Besides, she needed time to think and plan what she was going to say. It was silly, yes, but she was all too aware of how quickly plans out the window with Anders involved. There was no telling what was going on in his head, why he chose to stay nearby rather than leave. She thought back on what Isabela had said, scowling at the ground. What if she right? And he was just trying to use her somehow? Would she have it in her to arrest him? Or would her weakness let him run free again?

Before she knew it, it was night and she stood before the cave entrance that lead to the Deep Roads. Memories of the few times that she'd traveled here simmered to life. Anders had been with her each time, guiding way, teaching her signs to look for in order to avoid trouble. And on one special occasion when it had been the two of them, he had shown her just how much fun two people could have alone in a cave glowing with raw lyrium. He had claimed that raw lyrium kept Justice, who liked the stuff, relatively docile, and the difference it made was noticeable. Or perhaps it was the way the lyrium caves had enhanced his magical abilities. All she knew was it was the most exciting sex she'd ever had. Though it was a bad idea, the memory quickly clouded Hawke's mind, and she willingly accepted it.

Anders had been wild. Feral almost. Magic practically humming from his body as he leaned over her; his pace desperate, frenzied. She could feel magic in his fingertips when he stroked over her body, like sheet lightning spreading across her flesh. The lyrium's glow casting an eerie blue shade over their writhing, sweaty bodies. His thunderstorm scent mixing with the smell of cold rock and earth. The memory assailed her in quick succession, but all too soon did reality take its place. Morphing desire into guilt and worry. This was not a good start.

On a silent oath, Hawke entered the cave, following the familiar path Anders had shown her. It felt different to be here when he was not. While they walked, he had sensed for darkspawn, choosing the safest path for them to travel. At that thought, she stopped, staring at the wide cavern ahead of her. Anders sensed darkspawn because he was a grey warden. But Hawke could not. Would she be able to avoid walking straight into a horde? Spiders weren't a trouble, but a mass group of blood-thirsty blighted monsters?

"Come on now Hawke," she spoke to herself, "They don't call you Champion for nothing." Shoulders straightening, she began walking again. Reaching for her memory, she decided to follow the safe path he had once brought her through. She could only hope it hadn't changed, but because darkspawn didn't stand in one place, there was still a chance she'd run into them. Might as well be prepared for anything, she mused, drawing both blades as she descended an old set of stairs, rocks crumbling under her boots. The caverns ahead were glowing blue, and she as she entered them, she was met with the odd scent of ozone that she associated with lyrium. Inhaling deeply, she followed the glowing cave, steps light and soundless so she could listen for enemies nearby. One good thing about darkspawn; they made a lot of noise. Alert and braced for anything, the cave broke off into the underground thaig she'd once explored. Following the old stone walls, she came to a fork in her path. Stopping, she looked down either direction, still not hearing anything dangerous.

"Here we go..." She grumbled, taking a guess and going right. She had to climb over piles of rock, but the path on the other side of them was clean and untainted, only dotted with spider webs here and there. Perhaps even darkspawn didn't think to come this way. Could she possibly be that lucky?

"Yeah, maybe when flaming nugs come flying out of my ass..." Hawke sighed, shoulder her blades as she walked. Then chuckled to herself when she had heard what she said. "T'heh, gotta tell that one to Varric," she sighed, shaking her head. A sound made her stop moving, ears tuned for it. _Hsss_. The collective sound of a hiss coming from all directions sent a chill down her spine. _At least it wasn't darkspawn_.

Turning, she hunched into a defensive stance as giant spiders ambushed her, dropping from silky threads that hung from the ceiling. Four, six, eight, she lost count as they surrounded her. But spiders were nothing to her. They were simply rushing to their deaths. She even smiled a little, turning in a slow circle as they scampered toward her.

"That Guy wanted more spider silk, didn't he? Looks like this is your lucky day, Hawke. Let's party." She sneered as they leaped for her. They were predictable and less of a threat than wild mabari. Spider legs flew as Hawke spun, swung her blades and sliced at the monstrous insects. They hissed angrily, attempting to stab at her with their giant pincer-like fangs. Bu they weren't fast enough. It wasn't long until the last fell, hissing it's last.

Appreciating the work out, since it gave something else for her mind to focus on, Hawke sighed happily and let her weapon drop to the ground with a clatter. She bent to the first carcass to retrieve her spider silk when a new noise came from behind her. Acting fast, she pivoted to reach for her blade just in time to see the spider leap at her. It's had a bright red smear across it's abdomen, she noticed with a sliver of fear. Poisonous. She was fast, but so was it. Just as she grabbed her weapons, it attacked, fangs latching onto her forearm. Pain speared through her and she screamed, fury bringing her other arm down to slice the thing in half. As it fell to the ground, she collapsed with it, the spider's poison already working its way slowly thought her system. Again Hawke screamed, but this time it was because of the sheer agony she felt ravaging through her body. _Careless!_ And now she was going to die alone in the Deep Roads with a bunch of gross spider bodies around her.

A searing pain shot up her arm, making her gasp breathlessly, tears springing up in her eyes. She wasn't a Champion. She was scum. And nothing was going to go her way. Bethany, Mom, Seamus and Viscount Dumarr, she'd failed so many people. Why should she even try to fight it? Hawke's muscles relaxed, letting the poison course deeper into her system. Her last thought was a question; Who was going to warn Anders that Kirkwall knew where he was?

"_Anders_..." She whispered, just as everything went black. Oblivion cascaded around her, carrying the wild scent of thunderstorms and old dirt.

* * *

"Have either of you seen Hawke?" Fenris wandered into Varric's room, expression broody yet confused. Varric sat in his usual place at the end of his table, with Isabela at the other end leaning her chair back on two legs. A few empty bottles decorated the table, along with a deck of cards. Aveline soon eased her way in with several bottles in her hands, sitting down beside Isabela as the pirate captain took a bottle.

"She wasn't at her estate?" The ginger-headed guard captain asked, sliding Varric his own bottle then settling the rest down for easy reach. She then took the cards and began to shuffle.

"No. I stopped by to bring her along, but Bodahn said she had never come home." Fenris frowned, sitting himself in the remaining chair.

"You make it sound like Hawke hasn't ditched us before. Leave the poor girl alone for a night." Varric waved him off, taking the cards that Aveline began handing out.

"Aww, don't tell me you miss her, Fenris. Come here, let Mama soothe your troubles..." Isabela purred, leaning over seductively to reach for him. The elf didn't resist, letting the pirate captain stroke her fingers against his cheek, used to her blatant sexual advances and finding them refreshing. But that didn't stop him from scowling at her words.

"But doesn't she usually _tell us_ before hand if she'd skipping out?" Something didn't feel right.

"So maybe she met some guy on the way here and dragged him off somewhere," Isabela released his face, leaning back into her chair with a shrug and a quick drink.

"That sounds more like something you'd do, whore." Aveline commented idly, fishing through her hand of cards and laying one down. Isabela only laughed, leaning in affectionately to the guard captain. The woman saw through this, holding her cards to herself so the sneaky pirate wouldn't be able to cheat.

"I just don't like it..." Fenris grumbled, staring at his own cards.

"C'mon now, elf. Let it go. Remember all those times Hawke ditched us to meet up with Anders? This is no different, so get over it." Varric smirked, laying down a few specific cards that made Isabela groan and Aveline sigh. As he reached to collect his coin, his hands abruptly stopped. So did everyone else when they realized what he'd just said. A heavy silence fell on them for a few long seconds. It was Isabela who spoke first, attempting to laugh it off.

"She wouldn't. She promised! There's no way she'd go by herself..." The pirate captain chuckled, though it sounded strained. Another stressful silence.

"Because it's not like Hawke never goes back on her word, right?" Fenris' sarcasm quickly wiped the smile from Isabela's face. Aveline looked worried, Varric looked ill. The silence was damning. Until Isabela sprang up and dumped her cards on the table, along with a few stolen ones falling from her cleavage. She made for the door.

"Where are you going, Rivani?" Varric stood as well, but Isabela kept walking.

"Where do you think?" Aveline asked, jumping up to follow after her. After a moment of staring at each other, Varric shrugged.

"I'll get Daisy, then. You go after them."

"Maker help the mage if Isabela gets to him first." Fenris sighed as the two of them left.


	6. Chapter 6

A low rumble of a voice met Hawke's ears as she slowly eased out of unconsciousness. Her arm held a dull pain, but overall she seemed okay. _And alive, what a surprise_. Alive and warm. Was something covering her? It felt soft, warm, and a little scratchy. A blanket maybe? It smelled of old wool and a deeper, more familiar scent. One that brought up old memories of her time in the Deep Roads, wrapped up in a blanket and listening to Anders murmur softly to her. Kind of like he was now.

_Anders?!_

Hawke's eyes popped open, taking a moment to remember how to see again. As she focused, it became clear that she was in a new area. A small room or cave lit by a couple of torches. A ratty old table was pushed up against the wall, littered with papers and unknown objects to make the cave look like someone's living quarters. And that someone was just outside, heard but not seen. The entrance to the cave-room was covered by a blanket, and it shimmered a faint blue as if being shielded by magic. The magic clearly didn't diminish sound from the outside because Hawke heard the unmistakable rumble of Anders' low voice. It wound around Hawke's heart and squeezed until she was breathless. _Anders_, she thought with a painful intake of air. Anders was here. Had he saved her? And who was he talking to?

Hawke strained to hear, but only Anders' voice reached her, sounding stressed. As the memories continued to plague her, she fought to sit up. The pain doubling until she had to grit her teeth not to cry out. But because she'd been bitten by a spider once before, it wasn't as bad this time. Anders had been there, but nothing helped the agony she suffered for three days straight. _Small victories_, Hawke thought bitterly as that dull pain subsided quickly, letting her grow more aware to the voice outside. She now assumed Anders was talking to Justice by the way he sighed in frustration. The same sigh he always used when he was upset with the spirit possessing him. She could almost smile at the way he scolded the spirit, until she heard just what he was so upset about.

"No, I will _not_ kill her," he said in a hushed shout, making Hawke hold her breath. Her? As in Hawke-Her? She sat up straighter to hear more.

"She has done nothing but help us, Vengeance. So you will keep your warped sense of justice to yourself and let me heal her!" He shouted, making Hawke blink. He hadn't healed her? That would explain why her arm still hurt, but what of the poison? Her resistance to it must have been stronger than she thought. The argument came to an end, and Hawke grew tense. Justice wanted to kill her? What had she done?

"Know your place, Vengeance." Anders finally grumbled, followed by a shuffling that grew closer. He entered the small opening of the cave and stopped when he saw that she was awake. Hawke gasped, and they stared at each other.

Anders looked terrible. He had always looked a little rough and unkempt, but months on the run had done a number on him. He looked thinner, malnourished, making his face sallow and his natural frown more severe. His hair was longer, more brown than blonde, thick chunks of it hanging around his face, as if it had been chopped off to stay out of his eyes. Those eyes. They were the same vibrant blue. But there was a tired look in them. The eyes of a man old and tired of the life he's led, yet still fierce enough to keep pushing through the pain. He wore clothes she'd never seen before, and it was probably the first time she'd seen him in anything but his mage robes. Clothes that he'd more than likely stolen from a corpse or a traveler. Hawke shuddered, not liking either possibility. The sleeves of his shirt were pushed up, revealing numerous scars and rough calloused hands holding an injury kit. When he began walking to her, she flinched back, feeling uneasy.

"Hawke," he whispered her name like a prayer, guilt heavy in his blue gaze, "You should be resting. The poison is gone, but you're not properly healed." he opened the kit and Hawke could see medical supplies inside.

"How long was I out?" She finally spoke, Anders seemed to relax at the sound.

"A few hours. I'm sorry, I've had to wrap your arm, rather than use magic. I came to re-bandage it." He took out a few items, bringing his eyes up nervously.

"Oh..." Hawke forced herself to relax, nodding stiffly. At that, Anders came closer, thin hands gingerly removing the bandages from her arm. Wincing at the sight, she turned her head away. Blood wasn't usually a problem, but it didn't sit well with her when it was her own. Anders smiled weakly, recognizing her unease.

"Don't worry, you're fine. I was able to clean the wound and get the venom out before it stopped your heart. But you're lucky I found you at all. What were you thinking, Hawke? Coming here alone? You could've been killed!" His voice was heavy with disapproval. Hawke had to look away to avoid whatever emotion might have been in his eyes. Great, just what she needed. More people pointing out all her bad ideas. Expression sour, she focused on the dirt cave wall beside her.

"How _did_ you find me?" she questioned, muscles tense. He didn't seem to notice, too intent on her arm. Not a hint of magic came from his touch, which was odd. Because he always seemed to be overflowing with it in the past. Justice's doing?

"You passed over rubble to get down here, didn't you?" he paused until Hawke nodded, "Darkspawn don't usually think to climb over such an obstacle unless they were chasing something. It makes that path relatively empty. I heard the spiders attacking something, but since I didn't sense the darkspawn I figured they were attacking each other until... I heard you scream." he quieted, hands stilling. When he didn't speak again, she was tempted to look at him. The silence felt odd.

"Ah...well, thank you. For saving me. You're right, I shouldn't have come here alone, but..." her words rushed forward without thought, "I wanted to. I needed to. If I brought anyone else with me, I wouldn't have been able to talk to you straight. Isabela, Varric, all of them are so mad... Made me promise not to come without them. But I had to! Anders...!" She gasped, turning to face the made, who stood in a stunned silence, eyes wide.

"Why Anders? Why did you do it? Why didn't you tell me what you were up to? _Why did you lie?_" She demanded. It was now or never.

"You...would've tried to stop me," he murmured, weakened under her noticeable fury.

"No shit, I would have! What you did was wrong! The Grand Cleric, all those people...!" she was shouting now.

"And how many have _you_ killed, Hawke?" He fired back, making her gasp as if he'd slapped her.

"Not without reason! Those I killed were trying to kill me! But the Grand Cleric, Anders? The Chantry may be flawed, but there were innocents there! The Grand Cleric was not responsible for the havoc Meredith's reign caused. You were wrong, Anders. Very wrong." The rage of months boiled within her, rage and hurt. "You lied to me. Used me. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you right now." her voice was low, depressed. Though it was an empty threat, Anders still backed away from her. Good. If he had stayed she might have slapped him. A tense silence hovered over them, both simply staring at one another. It was a long while before Anders finally spoke.

"Is that why you're here? To turn me in? Drag me back to your master like a loyal hound?" he voice was cold, detached. The voice she once loved to hear, singing to her when she was ill or tired. From the man she once adored, giving her a reason to fight. It was all changed now. Everything about it felt wrong. This wasn't the man she loved. Hawke felt ill, and it had nothing to do with her wounds.

"I just wanted to know..." she whispered, voice hoarse.

"I already _told_ you, Hawke!" Anders' angry voice made her jump, but it didn't stop him, "We cannot have change until someone jumps first. It was extreme, but it was necessary to see that things change for mages everywhere. For the greater good. I thought you would understand, but apparently I was wrong about that." He sneered, a stranger to her eyes.

"Greater good? _You idiot!_ What you've done has damned mages, not saved them!" Hawke shifted her legs off the makeshift bed, the sudden movement making her dizzy. But the only pain she felt was in her chest. "You've heard, haven't you? About the mass mage rebellion, spreading across Thedas? It started a war, Anders. People are dying. _Innocent people_. And it's all because you thought you were helping!" She shouted, oblivious to the fact that her words seemed to upset the mage the longer she spoke. His eyes were on the floor, hands tightening around the injury kit until his fingers trembled. He shook his head, refusing to believe it. Hawke laughed bitterly, unable to stop herself.

"You're so blinded by justice that you can't even see the thousands of lives you've _ruined_," she trembled, emotion raw in her. Anders shook his head again, expression horrified.

"Hawke, don't." He choked out, arms trembling.

"Why not, Anders? Don't want to accept that your warped sense of justice was wrong all along?" Hawke spat, damning herself as much as him. She paused to take a breath, when she noticed something was wrong. The injury kit had fallen from his grip, unnoticed. Anders wrapped his arms around himself, and he looked in pain, still shaking his head. His faultless blue eyes opened to stare at her, so full of fear that Hawke's anger shifted naturally to worry.

"Anders?" She asked on a whisper, flinching back when a sudden burst of magic shook dirt from the cave walls. It hummed around him, but from the strained look on his face, he was fighting whatever it was. And losing.

"No..." he whispered, gasping, "I won't...I refuse!" his voice tried to raise above a shout, but the hum of magic was even louder. A blue light began crawling through Anders' flesh until he resembled Fenris, but as it reached his eyes, Anders screamed, the sound deepening to a voice she unfortunately recognized. Justice. The angry spirit that possessed Anders, and who was apparently pissed at her, had taken the mage over. Hawke had a moment or two to glance around her, relieved that her blades were within arms reach.

When Justice finally settled, he turned his angry glowing eyes to the wounded Hawke, sneering. Hawke attempted to ease him with one of her smiles. The spirit was not one to anger.

"Ah, hey there Justice. Long time no see." She smiled through the fear and unease.

"Woman," he barked, "You have become blind to the mages plight and are no longer considered an ally. Why have you come? Are you here to become a hindrance to Anders' goals?" his cold voice demanded answers, making Hawke's eyes narrow. Perhaps it was Justice's fault after all, everything that happened.

"I'm not blind, spirit. You are. Mages didn't need more deaths, it has only made matters worse. Surely you can see that." She scowled, yet flinching back when Justice came closer.

"All I see is a traitor who refuses to aid Anders and his peoples' struggle." He looked ready to throttle her, but he hadn't. Why?

"This isn't a struggle, spirit, it's a war." Not good, he was getting angrier. Bad things happened when he got angry. Like, blowing-up-buildings-bad. The air was bitter with the taste of his overflowing energy.

"A war you could help stop if you had any sense of justice for this plight," the pure fury looked so utterly wrong on Anders' beautiful face. This had to stop.

"I _do_ have justice. And it is telling me that it is not I who is the enemy here, but _you_." She growled, reaching for her blades. She managed to grab them both, just as Justice's hand closed around her wrist.

And intruding pulse of energy sprang form where their skin met. It violently sizzled up her arm, making her gasp at the burning sensation it left. When she tried pulling her arm away, he held her fast, the energy crackling.

"Then perhaps I shall have to show you what _real_ justice is." The stranger before her growled as the spark of energy intensified, burning across her flesh as if looking for a way inside. Hawke gasped. It felt as if though two energies fought within her. The terrifying crackle of blue lightning, and an angry burn of orange, sizzling against the blue until it cause sparks inside of her brain. She fought to get loose, as Justice continued to pump that blue energy into her, coursing through the rest of her. It finally found a weak point in her body's resistance, because a sudden pain had her crying out.

The offending presence seeped into her, and it felt as though another mind was blending with hers, its thoughts angry and triumphant. Was she being possessed? Hawke fought harder, tears springing up in her eyes as the foreign presence coated her mind and tried to take over, filling her heart with malice and hate. It felt wrong, so very wrong. Her arms began moving on their own and she was disgusted. If this was what Anders had experienced, she felt sorry for him. No one should experience something so horrid. The more she fought it, the more it seemed to take her. Emotions that weren't hers flooded her mind; an overwhelming anger, hatred, the desire for vengeance. Blood must be paid with blood. The presence fed off of her anger, and intensified until it turned ugly.

Just as she was having a hard time determining her rage from Justice's, something inside her pushed. It felt stronger than the intruding presence, and as it grew, Hawke felt the pressure of two separate consciousnesses lifting. When her body felt like hers again, she was able to shove Justice away from her. The last of that blue energy snapped back into Anders' body, as he hit the wall of the cave, face contorted into a sneer of pain.

"My suspicions were correct," he hissed, holding his ribs where Hawke's elbow had connected. Hawke glared, keeping her hands close to her weapons.

"Suspicions on what?" She watched as he stood straight again, content that the ribs of his host's body were not broken.

"I desired to test the strength of your ward, woman. Not bad. A spirit as old as I can still admire such an old form of magic, however insulting it is."

Hawke stared, as Anders' face shifted into tired expressions she didn't recognize. Another person's mannerisms on Anders' body. Hawke scowled.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about? You just tried to possess me!" She shouted, fingers flinching against her blade in an empty threat. Justice scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest.

"It was a test. If I really wanted to be trapped within a weak form like that, I would've done so years ago. I speak of the magical ward that you have coating your soul. It is poorly crafted, but strong. Not bad for Forgotten Magics." He was disturbingly at ease. As if he hadn't just tried to take over her body. Hawke felt unease settling deeper.

"I'm not a mage," she said slowly. Justice seemed mildly annoyed, waving his hand dismissively.

"I already know that, fool. I speak of the warn placed _on_ you, the only thing keeping me from forcefully possessing you. That, and it seems to upset Anders quite a bit." Justice's cruel smile formed over Anders' lips. "He is trying to take back control, even now." Hawke only blinked, that feeling now a solid ball in her gut. What was he talking about?

"Might I ask, who set the ward? I was not aware Forgotten Magics had escaped the Fade. Centuries ago, spirits like myself had killed all who had the skill. But there have been rumors of apostate families managing to keep the rare magic a secret. But to find it here of all places?" his eyes narrowed, deep in thought, "Or perhaps I should expect no less from you, foolish woman. Trouble seems to follow you like a dark cloud. So tell me, how did you get your greedy little hands on someone with Forgotten Magics? Judging by the way it coats your skin so intimately, I'd venture a guess it was your lover. Partial to mages, are we?" he sneered, making her face warm.

"I haven't slept with a mage since Anders!"

"I am aware, having been there at the time." He said in a low, disgusted tone, glowing eyes narrowed. Hawke warmed even more, meeting him scowl for scowl.

"Still, I have no idea what you're talking about. I didn't ask anyone to put a ward on me..." Justice looked at her, seeking the lie in her face. But when she just glared, his expression was almost confused.

"You are protected with Forgotten Magics and the mage didn't seek your permission?" When Hawke looked uncomfortable, Justice grinned, somehow making such a happy expression look cruel.

"Then it would seem your followers have not been completely honest with you, woman." he smirked, seemingly pleased. Hawke shook her head, utterly at a loss.

"What is this ward? How do I find out who put it on me?" she demanded. Justice raised his eyebrows.

"I already said its craft has the intimacy of a lover. I had assumed you had only one..." he trailed off, chuckling. Hawke grit her teeth, standing up. Anger cutting through the pain in her arm. Justice must have sensed her fury and growing violent intent, because he stepped back with a dark smile.

"Then it seems as though you are in a bit of trouble, Hawke. A ward can protect, but it can also work in reverse, binding your will to the caster..." he explained, his blue light beginning to vanish from Anders' face. He was releasing his control.

"Wait! You can't just leave, damn you!" she reached out to grab him, but he yanked back, pressed into the wall. When Hawke looked at his face, the light had vanished completely. Anders' was back. And he wasn't happy.

"Anders..." she spoke softly, taking her hand back. He looked tired, depressed and hurt. Her heart clenched. "Anders, you've got to believe me, I—"

"You should go." was all he said, seeming to fold in on himself, sitting down on a nearby chair. He had withdrawn completely from her, "I have to get packing. I can't stay here, not when they know where I am now." He began scraping papers and random trinkets together, into a ratty old pack. Hawke blinked, at a loss again.

"You're leaving me," she whispered, and Anders visibly twitched. The movement of his hands stilled.

"You know why I stayed in the Deep Roads for so long? Because I knew you'd find me eventually. And when you did, I thought you'd change your mind and come with me. But it looks like you're more needed here." He turned to look at her, expression so devoid of emotion it hurt to look at him. "Give my regards to Varric and the others." Then got back to packing away his things. Heart breaking all over again, Hawke trembled.

"Anders..." she tried to speak, but her throat had tightened.

"Just go," his voice was forceful, head down, "Whoever set your _ward_ is probably looking for you." he added bitterly, a slap across Hawke's face.

The hot burn of tears rushed to her eyes, and she staggered for the door, not wanting him to see her cry. Never again. She left the cave without a look back and practically ran for the exit. Though the caves were unfamiliar, she kept running, tears streaking down her face. _Stupid_. At some point, she had reached a pile of rubble, and she stumbled over it, scraping her knees. Dirty, hurt, heartbroken and lost, Hawke ran for the exit, crying harder when she had to pass the lyrium lined walls. _Stupid, stupid!_ She was so _stupid_.

"Ah!" She cried out as she tripped and fell heavily to her knees, unable to see the floor with tears filling her eyes. Gasping, she simply knelt there, blades dropping. Each breath she took was fire in her lungs, not sure if it was because she was crying, or the fact that the pain in her arm was more prominent with her rushing blood from the running. Whatever the reason, her energy seemed to have finally reached zero, and she collapsed onto the dirty floor of the cavern, unable to move. She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, but eventually someone called her name in the distance.

"Hawke!" The voice called again, closer this time. She struggled to look up, Isabela's terrified face meeting her. "What the hell, are you okay? You're hurt! Did that ass hurt you? I'll fucking kill him!" She fumed, as Aveline and Fenris lowered onto either side of her. Hawke tried to shake her head, but they just kept talking, words loud but warbled and unintelligible. Someone lifted her, and she saw Varric picking up her weapons so no one would forget them. Good. Those were her favourites.

"It's a spider bite, but it looks cleaned already..." Merrill soft lyrical voice came, sounding adorable and confused. Gentle hands touched her, and she jolted, gasping.

"Nevermind that, just heal her, damnit!" Isabela was frantic. The sound of their worried voices was a comforting blanket around her aching heart. She had such great friends...

"Hey Merrill...what's Forgotten Magic?" Hawke garbled, but before she could hear an answer, sweet oblivion claimed her once more, and she passed out.


	7. Chapter 7

."Is she okay?" Isabela whispered to Merrill as the young elf exited Hawke's bedroom, closing the door gently behind her. The normally cheerful girl looked troubled, but still managed to smile and nod.

"She's perfectly fine! All healed up. Only..." she trailed off, as the two of them descended the stairs together.

"Only she's been locked up in her room for two weeks," the pirate captain scowled, frustration on high.

"Yes..." Merrill sighed, then forced another smile. "But she's looking much better now!"

"Will she let me see her yet?" Isabela looked hopeful.

"Um...no," she winced, but the pirate captain only sighed. It was difficult, but Hawke had insisted on no visitors, with the exception of Merrill. She knew why. Ever since coming out of the Deep Roads, Hawke had withdrawn into herself. It was the same from when Anders first left. Something happened, but she refused to tell anyone what. Even Merrill, who was the only one allowed in her room at the moment. She apparently had questions about some kind of old magic, and Merrill was in the midst of researching it. Isabela didn't understand, she just wanted to comfort her friend. T'ch, Anders... If she ever got her hands on him...

"I'm sure she'll be fine soon! I mean, how long can she sulk over lost love?" The girl tilted her head curiously. Isabela smirked weakly.

"You've never been in love, have you, Kitten?" When Merrill's innocent gaze lifted to the pirate captain, she could only smile and pat her shoulder.

"You'll understand some day."

Hawke listened to Merrill and Isabela's voices fading, as she lay on her side in the center of her bed. Her dog lay next to her, refusing to leave while his mistress was in such a sorid state. She reached out to stroke the dog's head, and he let out a sleepy huff. It was pathetic, she knew. But her body could not find the will to move. Her mind infected with poisonous thoughts, making each second, each breath, unbearable.

_She was alone_, her mind kept repeating. Now and always, she'd be alone. Anyone who had dared try to love her, disappeared. Her family was dead, they couldn't love her. Anders had tried, but even he couldn't love her either. She'd tried so hard. Done so much good. And what does she get out of it? Loss. Pain. Trouble. Why did she even try anymore? There was only so much one person can accomplish on her own. Sure she had friends, loyal companions that risked a lot just to follow her. But her mother, a romantic heart, had a favourite saying she'd tell Hawke as a child; _One person can't hold anything, But two people could have the world_. How she had survived without Dad, was beyond her. Hawke had sought the type of bond her parents had since she was a little girl. There was something magical about two people in love. It was beautiful. And she'd been so close to reaching it. The blissful dream of loving Anders now fell flat in her heart. Still faintly aching. Every memory of him added another layer of hurt. His every smile, every laugh, all lies. The only thing real was the fact that he had betrayed her. She had put utter trust in someone and they lied to her. She thought briefly on the last time she saw him, the empty expression he held towards her, telling her to leave.

_Whoever set your ward is probably looking for you_. Hawke frowned, cheek resting on the softness of her pillow. She had asked, but even Merrill did not know who had set the ward. And it was one hell of a ward, she soon found out when they had an...experiment. An aura blast from Merill had redirected and flew straight back to the little elf, nearly knocking her off of her feet. Even healing magic had no effect. According to the elf, it was a magic long forgotten. In the past it had been used to protect important nobles from being entranced by rogue mages or possessed by demons. _Only_ a mage could set or release it, and _only_ upon a non-magic user. But the magic became less popular when the mages who set the wards began abusing the gift. Apparently a magical ward of that type created an internal bond to that person. The caster could feel if magical harm came to the warded individual, and protect them from it, even miles away. Worse yet, depending on the strength of the ward, the mage could at times feel that person's emotions and read their thoughts. To Hawke it sounded like a gross invasion of privacy, but Merrill had called it romantic. To be so connected with a person.

And history thought so too, apparently. After a few hundred years, the magic had been used exclusively for mated couples, with only a few dozen families left with the gift in Tevinter lands. But she didn't think she ever met a Tevinter mage that wasn't trying to kill her. Who was it? And why hadn't they told her?

Hawke rose her hand to her forearm, all healed up. From lengthy, painful, non-magical means. Merrill had said the person who set the ward would be able to control what magic was allowed through it, but Hawke wasn't so sure. Even the peaceful glow of healing had been slapped aside by that angry orange blaze coating Hawke's flesh. It made her shiver to think about. Almost as bad as being possessed. This wasn't romantic at all. It was perverted. And came from mages. Go figure.

So much had happened, both good and bad, and it had been at the hands of mages. After their magical experiments, Hawke had refused to let Merrill touch her again, though it pained her to do so. She couldn't bring herself to be touched by another mage. Not yet. Not until she figured out who had lied to her. Well, who _else_ had lied, besides Anders. What was it with mages? Were they truly afraid of trusting someone? Given their history, she was willing to bet No.

The longer she thought about it, the worst she felt. A confusing mix of anger and guilt. It was true most of her problems were on account of mages, but how much harder was it for them? All the prosecution, animosity, the deaths. Not wanting to think about it anymore, Hawke squeezed her eyes shut and purged every thought until she was left with the silence of her estate, the faint sounds of Bodahn tidying the main room, his ever-cheerful voice keeping up a casual conversation with his son.

It was so quiet that even way up in her room, she could hear the heavy knock on her front door. When her dog suddenly lifted his head, Hawke's curiosity piqued. But all she could hear was Bodahn's exuberant greeting and his typical happy-old-man talkativeness with whoever had stopped by. He was a sweetheart, but had a tendency to talk way too much. But maybe all dwarves were like that, Hawke mused with a sad smile as she thought of Varric. Despite her rule about no visitors, the dwarf had sat outside her door every night to keep her up to date on the happenings at the Hanged Man. Maybe that was who had come. Hawke smiled weakly, closing her eyes to listen for his smooth story-teller voice draw near. But what she got was something more unexpected.

"A-Ah, my apologies, Messere. B-But I really don't think the lady is accepting visitors at this time. Perhaps you c-can leave a note? And I'm sure she'll—M-Messere!" he choked, but it was too late. The door to Hawke's room swung open, and struggling to sit up, Hawke stared in horror as Seneschal Bran, as smooth as he pleased, stood in her doorway as if he belonged there. Behind him, Bodahn babbled in embarrassment, but judging from Bran's tense posture, he had no intention of leaving. Turning, he politely bowed his head to the poor dwarf.

"I will only be a few minutes. Surely the _Viscountess_ can spare that much for Kirkwall?" his voice was smooth and calm, but it only left her feeling ashamed. As her dog bounced up and out of her bed, Hawke slipped under her blanket until she was just a red lump in the center of the four-poster, cowering. At her door she could hear her affectionate mutt give a few soft barks and noisy snuffling, presumably under Bran's attention.

"B-But Messere..."

"Why don't you see to Serah Hawke's mabari? He looks like he wants out." When the door barked happily, amongst Bodahn's unsure protests, the sound of her door closing made Hawke tense underneath her covers. He was staying? She did _not_ want him here, especially not when she was like this. The silence grew, and while she enjoyed her peace and quiet, it was impossible with the heavy pressure of Bran's presence blocking her exit._ Why was he here?_

"Serah Hawke. I can overlook a few days to recover from a spider bite, but you must understand that eventually you will have to return to your duties as Viscountess..."

Great, he knew what happened then. Hawke shifted under the covers, but did not dare show her face. Thought she couldn't see, she swore she could _feel_ Bran move from the door to her desk, probably snooping into her things. She scowled. He had better not-

"Did you really...stab a man in the eye with a broken bottle of ale after he-"

"A little privacy, Seneschal!" Hawke cried, tossing the covers from her head to glare at the man, who had a finger resting on her journal and a curious look on his face. At her words, he straightened and turned to look at her.

"I didn't write that, Varric did." She added more softly, pulling the heavy blanket around her shoulders to hide herself from his inevitable scrutiny. His gaze was too intent, searching her face as if her every emotion was painted in red across her forehead. Uncomfortable, she turned her back to him and ran her fingers through her unkempt hair. "What are you doing here...?"

"I have already answered that question, Serah Hawke." His tone was flat. And she was starting to think that that was what he called her when he was upset with her. "Now _you_ will answer one of mine," he paused, waiting for her to look at him. When she didn't, he sighed.

"Is there a reason, _a good reason_, as to why you fail to uphold your duties as Viscountess; why you remain held up in your room like a hermit, when your wounds are long since healed?"

She was tempted to say that broken hearts didn't heal as easily, but that wasn't information for him to know. Instead, she rearranged the rumpled pillows on her bed, avoid him entirely. Bran wasn't pleased.

"Hawke..."

"None of your damned business, Bran," she snapped.

"Your short comings _are_ my business, Hawke," his harsh tone almost made her flinch. But the pain she felt shifted that guilt into rage.

"True, but my personal life has nothing to do with you being my Seneschal. So _butt out_!" the last words were practically growled; and in her fit, Hawke had turned to face him. His expression hadn't changed, and that only made her angrier. She could only stare as he straightened and tucked his hands behind his back, a pose she was familiar of.

"Quite the contrary, Hawke. A Seneschal's role is often seen as little more than a nanny. I have no other purpose than assisting the Viscount and assure that he, or she, is at their best. Should some kind of...tragedy befall the Viscount, their ability to govern with a clear head is...challenged," he murmured quietly, still watching her with the same intensity. When she thought of Dumarr's son, her expression softened. Bran, too, released the stiffness in his shoulders, a simple quiet settling between them. Nanny, huh?

"Like or not, Hawke, you will need to grow more accustomed to my intrusion in your life. For the good of Kirkwall, yes?" His voice was a mere hum, but it had little effect.

"Yes, I've gotten used to the idea of being _unhappy forever_ since becoming Viscountess," Hawke grumbled quietly, as Bran's lips twitched in amusement.

"I assure you, it is not all bad. Did I not mention all the parties you'll be invited to?"

"Oh yeah, I can hear the stories now; 'The Honorable Madame Viscountess, starting fights, taking off her clothes and dancing the Remigold in a drunken tirade throughout Kirkwall'." Never again was she accepting a drink from Isabela without knowing what was inside... Bran was surprisingly at ease, unfolding his arms to absentmindedly adjust the front of his shirt.

"I'm sure we can avoid such...exposure, should I accompany you." That made Hawke roll her eyes.

"_You_? At a party? I find that hard to picture, Seneschal. Unless by party, you mean a quiet sermon or a book club." She tried to think of something boring and more fitting to a man his age. Bran shook his head, startling her with a chuckle.

"I do not know what kind of parties you Fereldens have-"

"_The best ones-_"

"_But_, here in Kirkwall, our festivities are much more subdued than what you might think."

"And doesn't that just sound fantastic." Hawke grumbled. She was going to miss a good Ferelden celebration.

"I'm sure you will find them to be... not at all a total loss. As Viscountess, you are entitled to at least one celebration, once you are properly sworn in. And, though I may come to regret this, I am at liberty to inform you that as host of said celebration, you are given foremost authority on it's activities," Bran's fluid cultured voice explained to her slowly, carefully. But at Hawke's shifting expression, he could tell it was going to be the death of him. For the first time since that night at the Hanged Man, he saw the spark of mischief, and that sassy wit, return to Hawke's eyes. She'd been staring off into nothing, deep in thought, but when those vibrant eyes met his, Bran felt like groaning.

"Whatever thought just went through your thick head, _forget it_. Kirkwall will _not_ be subjected to your-"

"You _did_ say it, Bran. And I _am_ Viscountess. Who are you to deny poor old me, now?" Hawke felt her spirit lifting, washing out all the pain. Well, most of it.

"I am your Seneschal, that's who. And it is a duty of mine to advice against _poor_ decisions," he stressed his words with a stern look, but Hawke wasn't having any of it.

"Poor decisions, you insult me, dear Seneschal! If I'm going to have my own party, it should be to my liking, correct? Then I simply must speak to my dear friend, Isabela. We have much to plan." She smirked, bouncing from her deep maroon sheets and out of bed. Defeated, Bran lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Need I remind you that once you are formally accepted as Viscountess, you will be the foremost important figurehead in the entire Free Marches, in league with the King of Ferelden and the Empress of Orlais in the rest of Thedas? Not some ruffian getting drunk on cheap wine in a filthy basement with common street trash"

"The Hanged Man is not a basement, Bran. And I assure you, this party will do Kirkwall a world of good." Hawke scoffed, pattering around the room with bare feet. Bran sighed, lowering his hand and looking up.

"Really, Hawke, I don't think-" his words cut off with a startled choke as he caught sight of Hawke, who had wandered before the fire, reaching above it's mantle for what looked like a spare bit of parchment and a quill.

Maker slay him, the girl wasn't wearing pants.

He hadn't noticed when she'd been in bed because of her abundance of blankets and pillows, but now... The light from the fire illuminated her bare legs, every long slender inch of them. Though she wore her nightshirt, it was only long enough to barely cover the rounded curve of her bottom. He could only praise Andraste that she had worn something underneath, however tantalizingly scant. Still, the sight was enough to give a man a heart attack. That, and the brazen way the girl wandered about before him as if she weren't half naked. Her general ease with her lack of attire said that she probably ran through the halls of her home in similar states of undress. Bran had to wonder if she knew how tempting she looked, murmuring quietly to herself as she write on her parchment with an eager bounce that made Bran swallow back a surge of heat in his chest. They certainly didn't make them like _that_ in Kirkwall.

"Hmm, no Bran, you don't think. That's why we're going to need Isabela's input. She'd been to a good party, or a hundred, in her time, don't you think?" Hawke chuckled, glancing over her shoulder to find Bran staring at her legs with an almost hungry expression. Her heart jumped, warmth spilling from her core and filling the rest of her in a dizzy rush. She knew Bran found her at least a bit attractive, but the look in his eyes...

He quickly caught himself, a slight coloring creeping up his neck as he coughed into a fist to divert his gaze. Hawke immediately burst into a fluster, dropping her paper and grabbing the nearest pair of leggings on the corner of her bed. It was only then did the glimmer of her womanly heart came back. And her room was filthy as well, _damn it all_!

"I ah, I'm sorry Bran. This has to be wrong on so many accounts. Makers breath, I must look worse than an Antivan whore house right about now. Damn my stupidity!" she swore under her breath, tying her trousers with fumbling fingers. She was completely caught off guard when she heard a soft chuckle from behind her. Turning, she stared at the Seneschal, who was, to her horror and confusion, amused. Red-faced and clearly uncomfortable, but still amused. She must have looked upset, because he cleared his throat and lowered his head politely.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, my lady. It is, after all, my fault for barging in on you while you were bed-ridden. You'll have to forgive my bad manners, serving a...fragile-spirited man like Viscount Dumarr has presented one too many house calls in my years. I've grown all too used to seeing my superiors in their bedclothes, Madame Viscountess," he stifled another chuckle, the wild glimmer of mirth in his eyes making him seem like more of an easy going nobleman, all charm and excitement, than a stuffy man locked away in the Keep all day. The fact that he seemed a little too at ease with this, made Hawke feel even more vulnerable.

"Yeah, well, Just so we're clear, you are most certainly _not_ allowed in my room again after this little...visit of yours." She was horribly ashamed, embarrassed, ready to climb into the Deep Roads and die. Bran would never let her live this down, would he?

"Is that your order as Viscountess?" came his low, curious voice, amusement lingering in his tone. She was afraid to look at him; afraid of his affect on her. So instead, the flustered woman quickly made for the door.

"As a matter of fact, it is." She swung open the door and rushed through. Bran soon followed, his smug voice quiet as she stormed for the stairs.

"As you wish, Madame Viscountess." The low hum made Hawke's fingers twitch as she gripped the stair railing. In the main room, Bodahn stood straighter and took in the sight of the two. He immediately noticed Hawke had dressed, but didn't recall Bran leaving her room to give her privacy. He also noticed that the pair were slightly flushed, Hawke in embarrassment, and Bran in amusement. The wise old dwarf could taste the tension that had occurred within the minutes that he'd left them alone in that bedroom. But Hawke looked too upset to be bothered right now, she didn't even acknowledge them as she swept by and into the entrance hall.

"A-Ah, my lady?" Bodahn hesitated, peeking in after her shyly.

"I'm going out for a bit, Bodahn," she rushed on, "Look after my hound, will you?" Bodahn stammered and nodded.

"Yes of course, and do be safe. But my lady,-"

"_What_." She hissed, more of a command than a question. The startled dwarf began a nervous babbling; he was never all that good at handling the young spitfire human in this particular mood. But it was Bran who swept into the entrance hall after her, smoothly descending upon the stiffening woman, hands flashing out before she could evade them.

"Hey!" She started, but Bran shushed her with an expertise that Bodahn almost admired.

"A lady should never leave her home in such disarray, is what the good dwarf is trying to say," he commented idly, quick fingers untying the hastily done laces of her vibrant red armor. She tensed, but did nothing as he redid them properly, not even listening as Bodahn agreed, relaxing as his mistress lost her hostile expression. Almost curious, as she glanced down at his work, to his face.

"You're pretty good at that, for a politician," she murmured suspiciously. Bran's lips twitched, but with Bodahn and the mabari nearby, he lacked the smug playfulness he possessed not a few minutes ago.

"Politicians shouldn't know how to fasten armor?" a glimmer of amusement lit his green eyes. Hawke warmed. "A Seneschal's duty is to serve the needs of his Viscountess, whatever they may be," he practically whispered, obtaining a soft gasp from Hawke. She jerked from him, cheeks colored prettily, and quickly turned to flee, throwing the door open and darting out.

She could just barely hear Bran's polite farewell to Bodahn and the quiet click of her estate door closing, but she was too occupied with her attempt to flee him. She'd done her fair share of teasing/flirting in her feisty young life, but being on the receiving end had always given her pause. Some might call her a maiden because of this, but she refused such a dainty title. However, being on the receiving end of Bran...was like being under the hands of a master. Manipulating her expertly, with the least bit of effort made. It was mildly unsettling that such a man could conjure this feeling from her. With Anders she had felt want, lust, excitement. His smiles made her warm inside, butterflies flew in her stomach when he gave her _that_ look.

Hawke frowned, the dull ache returning to her chest. She shouldn't have been thinking of him, let alone comparing him to Bran. Still, it was now painfully obvious that in terms of sensuality, Anders was a boy. But Bran...that was a _man_.


End file.
